


1-2-3

by rosegardenlake



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cutting, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, i put sheith but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardenlake/pseuds/rosegardenlake
Summary: He’s been doing as much as he can and still, he’s slipping.





	1-2-3

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: Please do not read if you are sensitive to topics relating to suicide.**

 

* * *

 

1.

 

The first time he thinks it, he’s driving.  He’s just tired. There’s really no reason for it.  He couldn’t sleep the night before and he woke up even earlier and he’s just angry for no reason.  Down.

Pidge kept giving him funny looks all day long and Hunk asked him twice if he was alright.  He managed a smile, albeit a little tired, and said, “yeah, of course”. Nothing was wrong. Why would anything be wrong?  Lance even gave him an extra pat on the back as he slid into his car.

When everyone left, he stayed in his seat, just watching the blue emptiness of the sky.  He took a deep breath. Let it out. And drove.

And now, as he drives, he begins to wonder.  Wonders what it’ll be like if he takes his hands off the wheel.  Wonders what it’ll feel like to crash. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll feel nothing.  And there’ll just be blackness, a hole in the universe where he had once been. Or maybe he’ll remember every second of it and regret - going from curiosity to fear in the span of one minute.  

Maybe he wants to try it.

Maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of the others driving on the road - he can't stand the thought of hurting anyone else - and keeps steady.

 

His mom is home, frowning into her work.  When she looks up, her face eases into a smile.  “Hey.  How was your day?”

“Fine,” he says and goes upstairs.

It’s not fine and he doesn’t know why.  He sits on the edge of his bed and just tries to breathe.  His body feels feverish and sick, like there’s acid beneath his skin, dissolving away to the heart of him, eating at his bones and his spirit.  There's this odd tugging beneath his sternum.  He feels like if he could reach up and into it, he could just start pulling, and little ribbons of his being would just begin to unravel.  Diminish until there's nothing left.  He wonders why he can’t get a grip on himself. He was fine just yesterday. He doesn't know what this is.

He thinks maybe he should try to relieve the feeling in his chest but doesn’t know how.  So he sits. And stares blankly, eyes distant, as he tries to push down the feeling in his gut that’s gnawing up and out of him, trying to push through his being and make him burst.

His phone chimes and with the last of his effort, he reaches for it.

It's Pidge, sharp as a tack, texting him, asking him if he’s alright.

He knows he should answer her.  A simple 'yes' would do.  She’d let him get away with that, but he’s so without energy he can't even manage that much.  He knows it's stupid, but he sets his phone down and uses the remnants of his energy to stare blankly into the floor.

There’s a knock on his door and his mom opens it before he can say anything.  She’s looking at him but not really seeing. She’s still smiling, oblivious to the sick sticky mess inside of his core.  “How was your yearly check-up at the doctor's?”

“Good,” he says lowly, looking away from her.  His mother and father are the epitome of power couple.  They’re always happy. Always strong. They don’t have to worry about weaknesses, physical or mental.  He should be like them, _strong_ like them, he  _is_ their son, after all.

...He doesn't feel strong, not like this.  He's hurt inside and it's so uncomfortable.  But it'll go away on its own, won't it?  It'll pass.

“Good,” she says brightly, patting his door before she turns, ready to head out.

“Mom, wait,” he forces out, desperation welling up in himself.  What if it doesn't pass?  What if what the doctor said about him is true?  He wants this to get better, whatever it is.  Krolia seems like a good start.

She watches his face, eyebrow raised.  “What is it?” She asks.

He swallows hard.  He doesn't want to say it but he knows he has to.  Knows this is his chance or else everything will only become worse.  “I was talking to the doctor...about certain things.  She says I should be treated for depression. And...and anxiety.  She says it’s pretty bad.”

Her eyebrow goes higher.  Frowns and tilts her head like she didn't hear correctly.  There's no malice, but she looks genuinely confused, like _her_ son can't get  _depression_.  “...Depression," she murmurs.  "The doctor said that...?  About you?  But Nothing bad has happened to you.  That makes no sense.”

He swallows hard, hearing the skepticism in her voice and shying away from it.  He wets his lips. Feels himself fading.  “It...it doesn’t always have to be situational...  Sometimes it just...happens. Like people who get a cold.”

She’s shaking her head, small smile on her lips.  “Oh, Keith, don't let the doctor worry you. That doesn’t happen to people like us.  We have a roof over our heads, we're eating healthily, you have great friends.  You're fine.  Everything's fine."

“Mom...”

“ _Who_ did you see again?”

He bites at his lip.  “Mom, listen... She wrote me up a prescription. I’d feel better if I just tried it. Can you please pick it up for me?”

She leans against the door heavier, her face pinching in more and more as her bafflement grows.  “You're thinking of taking it?  You’re not depressed.  I don't understand.  Why would you want to?”

“Mom...”  He swallows hard.  He can hardly admit this much, he can't stand the thought of prying his chest open more, pouring at more of his feelings only to have them shunned.  Already, he's trembling inside.

She wouldn’t understand.  She's always go, go, go.  Nothing hurts her.  “Keith, listen to me.  Doctors don't always know everything.  Meds like that can mess you up.  They can have a lot of side effects. They’re for people who actually _need them_.”

“What if I do...?”

She shakes her head, as if trying to ward away a bad thought.  “Keith, don't worry so much.  You’re doing fine, honey.  The pharmaceutical companies just want more money and this is how they get it.  I’m going to go make dinner.  Your dad’s not going to be home until late tonight.”  She rolls her neck, casting him one final look.  “Don’t forget to study for that big test coming up. If you get an A, I’ll take you out, okay?”

He watches her leave.

In the quiet of his room, he feels so weary.  But he doesn’t want sleep. He doesn’t want wakefulness.  He doesn’t want to eat or drink or take a shower or watch t.v. or draw or call anyone.  He doesn’t want anything. His whole being is filled with everything he _doesn’t_ _want_.  And the one thing he feels could help is something he cannot do.

His mom doesn’t believe him.  He’s too afraid to tell his father, the less understanding of the two.

It’s like there are no options left.

The first time he does it, it’s very quiet all around him.  Somehow it feels like a sweet kiss given to him from a loved one.  He uses the first sharp thing he can find - a small needle - and sets it on his skin, watching the way his soft plaint flesh buckles beneath it.  And then he pushes it down, dragging it across his skin, hissing at the way it hurts.

But somehow it kind of feels good too, like an itch that he’s been wanting to scratch but hasn't been able to reach until now.  Like the acid that’s been eating away at his bones is surging up and bleeding out with the red that blossoms over his white skin.

It’s good.  It’s about the only good thing he can feel, so he wraps his hand around the needle and does it again.

 

The next day is a little bit better.  Whatever had hit him previously is just a blanket over his spirit now.  It is still dark in his head and he feels drained and uncomfortable in his body, but the impact has lessened into waves and that’s better somehow.

And he had found a razor in his art supply kit.  He has it in his pocket now.

“Wow,” Lance said, sitting beside him in class and pulling out his seat.  “You look like shit.”

“Thank you.”  He rubs at his eyes that he knows has purple circles beneath them, shifts to quell the nervous tension in his gut that says he's missing his razor.  He can feel it nudge against his thigh and he lets out a small sigh of relief.

“Like...really bad.  I thought you just went to the doctor the other day.”

“It was just a check-up.”

“Yeah?  And did she actually check you?”

“Lance,” he says tiredly, letting his eyes fall across the room, on someone who is not like him.

He’s always admired Shiro.  Everyone has. He’s always smiling.  Always bright. It kind of scares Keith, but in a good way.  He wouldn’t know what to do if he were that bright all the time.  That perfect.  That...not fucked up.

It must feel like a miracle.

“You’re staring again,” Lance chuckles slightly.  “I’d probably wait to make your move until you don’t look like a ghoul.”

“I-I’m not staring.”  Keith huffs, looking away.

But his eyes flicker back up to Shiro and in that moment, Shiro seems to sense him and they make eye contact.

Shiro smiles, looks like he's about to acknowledge him.

Keith freezes, shoves his hands into his pockets, and looks away.

 

* * *

 

 

2.

 

The second time he thinks it, he’s at the beach with his friends.  They’re trying to cheer him up, he thinks. He used to like coming to the beach.  He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him now.

He can’t take off his shirt or his swimsuit trunks because there are marks there, littering his body, red and angry, filled with hurt, filled with relief.  If any of them see, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. But his friends eye him suspiciously immediately when he doesn’t run across the sand and dive into the ocean.  They watch him out of the corner of their eyes as they pretend to laugh and have a good time.

He gets a towel and lays it out across the sand, shoving on sunglasses and letting himself sprawl out on his back.  There are clouds in the sky and it’s not yet summer. There’s a chill in the air that makes him a little uncomfortable.

He thinks of the razor in his bag and he wants to use it.  There’s that burning in his bones again, that tightness in his throat, the itching beneath his skin that makes him feel a bit like he’s choking.  Relief is so close, a small piece of grey shoved in the darkness of his bag, but he can’t. Not when his friends are watching. And he knows they are.

Pidge forgoes the water and sits beside him as Hunk and Lance hoot and holler out by the shore.  It smells like rotted plants and salt and ocean and it’s really bothering him, which is funny, because he always used to love it before.

“Kind of cold, huh?”

“A little.”

“Usually you’re the first one in the water.”

“Hm...”

She grabs onto her feet and rocks back, turning her head to look at the seagulls carefully sneaking closer, trying to scope out their towels for scraps of food.  “...Have you been okay, Keith?  You...haven’t seemed like yourself.”

“I dunno.”  There’s nothing she can do.  There’s no reason to become a burden to her.  “Just tired, I guess.”

“Hm.  Must be some vicious lack of sleep.  Shiro walked by you the other day and you didn’t even turn to stare at him.  I think he’s been working out lately. His back is looking very defined.”

He huffs out a small breath that he hopes sounds like a laugh.  “I dunno.  It’s not like he’d ever look at me.”

“But he does.”

“Okay, Pidge.”

She sighs, rolling forward into a squat.  She grabs his hands from over his head and tugs him forward.

He groans and he’s only half-joking.  He feels like lead.

“Let’s go look at the tide pool.  I bet we’ll find some starfish. You can nerd out on me.  I’ll even listen this time.”

“Wow, I must really look bad.”

“No, not bad.  I’m just feeling a sudden fondness for you, that's all.”

He laughs softly, actually manages it, as he helps Pidge pull him to his feet.  

They walk barefoot across the rocks, Lance and Hunk following behind them, laughing and cracking jokes that Pidge turns to every once in awhile and shouts, “you guys are _gross_ ”.  She’s laughing.  She looks happy. Keith wishes he could feel that too, but he can’t.  He just frowns into the tiny pools of water beneath his feet, wondering how long it’d take for the water to dry up and kill everything out here.

They reach the end of a cliff.  Mighty waves are crashing against it, ebbing and slamming, ebbing and slamming.  And he kind of gets it in some way, it’s like his mood lately. One second there’s relief, and the next is just pain.  And he wants it to stop. Wants the ocean to just be still, but it won’t quit. It just keeps going. Ebbing and crashing, ebbing and crashing.

He walks toward the edge, peering down.  He wonders what it’d be like if he jumps.

There are rocks all around him and they’re sitting there innocently, undisturbed by the ocean’s movement.  He sneaks his foot over and toes one off.  It falls, clacking against the side of the cliff. Bouncing and smacking against other rock, breaking apart until it disappears as the ocean reaches up for it and drags it under.  Then it's just disappeared. It doesn't resurface. Gone.

The sound.  He wonders how he would sound if he just fell.  If he took one step too far and let himself succumb to the forces of nature, let gravity push, let the ocean pull.

Gone.

“Hey,” Pidge leans into his space, grabbing him by the wrist.  There’s concern on her face that she’s trying to mask with a superficial laugh.  “Getting a little close, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t laugh with her.

He wants to jump.

He wants to hear that sound.

He wants the ocean to just drown him until there’s nothing of him left.  Until the fire in him is doused completely.

Gone.

 

* * *

 

 

3.

 

The third time he thinks it, he has just come home from school, the big test in his hand that he somehow managed to pass with flying colors even though his brain has felt like static and sludge.  There’s an A written on the top in bold letters and he walks over to his mom, showing it to her.

She looks up at it, nods her head once in approval and hums out a “nice” before looking back down.

He shouldn’t have expected more than that and he guesses he didn’t really, because his stomach only drops a little.

He takes his leave up that same flight of stairs, not even bothering to turn on the light as he makes it to his room and falls into his bed.

God, he’s so tired.  He’s been making Lance drive him lately.  Doesn’t trust himself to drive anymore. He’s been letting himself get basically force-fed by Pidge, who keeps shoving more and more food at him and saying he’s been looking skinnier and skinnier despite that.  Food’s just been disgusting him lately. The very thought makes him want to vomit. He’s been doing as much as he can do and still, he’s slipping.

His phone rings and it sets his teeth on edge.  He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.  _Anyone_.  Doesn’t want to have to pretend he’s alright anymore because he’s _not_.  He’s one big black and blue bruise that’s been ground up one too many times.

He wants to cry but hates the idea.  He wants to smack his head against the wall until he knocks himself out but doesn’t want the dizziness.

So he reaches into his bag instead and pulls out the razor.

Everywhere he can hide is covered in angry red gashes.  He doesn’t really know if it’s helping him anymore or if it’s just a reflex that he only hopes will get rid of some of the pain.  He doesn’t actually think it does.

But he cuts through his skin anyway.  Makes it hurt. Makes it go deeper each time.  He cringes against it, feeling that strange sense of pleasure blossom in his chest.  He hates it.  He hates everything about it.  His skin opens and bleeds again and he’s crying and he’s just leaking all over the place, spent and miserable and he’s just a waste of space.  He just wants this all to end. He just wants to die. He doesn’t want anything else, not anymore.  What's the point of any of this struggle?  It's like this loop that brings him in and out, giving him enough relief to keep going just so that he can head straight back right into the pain.  What's - the  _point_?

But what about his parents?  What about his friends?  Who will be the one to go into his room after he’s dead and gone sorting through all his junk, heartbroken?  Who will have to find his dead body and wonder if he’s just passed out or gone?  Will they see the cuts?  Will they wonder what happened in his head that went so horribly wrong?  Or will they just think he was spoiled and silly and too stupid and too young to live his life the right way?

He’s got to call someone. Someone has to help him.  It's too much to bear alone.  He reaches for his phone.

But, at the last second, his hand twitches and he hesitates.  Pidge is with her family right now; Matt's visiting and she's waited for this moment for months now.  Lance is with his family and he's always so busy taking care of his siblings.  Hunk was supposed to go out and celebrate passing his test, just like Keith was.  They're all busy.

He slips the phone away and stares at the ceiling.

He knows he’s a burden now.  But he knows he’ll be an even bigger burden if he admits everything, asks for help.  Maybe they’ll think of him differently. Think he’s weak. Try to leave him.

He likes his friends.  He doesn’t want them to think he’s just being a brat even though maybe that's all this is.  He doesn't know.  There are so many things he could’ve done differently to prevent this and he didn’t and that’s all his fault.  Why should he push the burden on anyone else?  This isn't their lives or their mess.

There’s a knock on his door and he scrambles, pushing the razor off the edge of the bed so it’s out of sight, trying to tug his shirt over the cuts on his abdomen and his arms.

He knows he’s bleeding.  He hasn’t cleaned it up yet.  But his mom usually only stops in for a moment and leaves, so he thinks he’s in the clear.

But it’s Hunk who comes in, shoulders shrugging high in a bit of nervous tension as he holds out a bag of food.

“Hey, Keith.  How's it going?  My mom brought me out to that bakery over on Elm and she wanted me to get you something too.  So here. Celebration for those good scores.”

“O-oh,” Keith breaths, tugging at his sleeve and brushing his hair from his face.  “Oh. That’s...that’s nice of her.” He’s thinking of the razor on the other side of the room, still red from his blood.  He thinks of the red that’s probably on his hands and he shoves them beneath his legs. “Thanks,” he remembers to say hurriedly at the last second.  “You can just leave it on the desk.”

“Mmkay,” Hunk says easily.  Keith had meant the desk by the door, but he walks in, heading for his art desk.

Keith almost loses it.  His razor flung over there.  Hunk will see. Everything will be ruined.  He’s two seconds from screaming at Hunk to just _go_ , but he manages to keep it in.  Hunk sets the food on the desk and turns, smile on his face.  “No art out? You always have a huge mess on your desk.”

“Oh...”  Keith bites at his lip and forces out a long sigh, trying to keep up with the conversation.  Art.  On his desk.  He guesses he hasn’t.  “I haven’t really thought about it lately.”

Hunk nods slowly, looking around at the drawings Keith still has up, that he had hung on his walls months ago and just stopped seeing as they blended into what was normal.  “I thought your mom was going to take you out if you aced your test?”

“Yeah.  She, uh, forgot, I guess.  It’s fine. I don’t want to go anyway.”

Hunk hums under his breath, just standing there, the razor only a few inches from his foot.  He isn’t one to notice details and Keith is glad. If it had been Pidge, she’d catch it in a second.

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Hunk says lowly, and when he looks up at Keith there’s something sad in his eyes that makes Keith think he’s been a worse actor lately than he thinks he’s been.  “Keith,” he starts gently. “I just want you to know...”

The door bursts open and his mom comes in.  “Keith, I need you to go into town for me.  I have some errands I need to run but I didn't get a chance earlier and I'm just swamped...  I've got a migraine the size of this town and I can't do it today.  Here's the list.”

She’s always been abrupt.  She doesn’t mean anything by it, Keith’s always known that, he’s the same way.

“But the roads are bad,” he murmurs, thinking of how that gives him an easier excuse to crash the car.  “It’s late.”  Darker.  Easier to get lost in his head.

She doesn’t get it, hasn’t tried to.  She sighs, rolling her eyes.  “Keith, you’re perfectly capable of driving in these conditions.  What's been with you lately?  You are not  _weak_.”

She doesn’t mean anything by it.  Keith _knows_.  She doesn't.  But he’s just been so tired lately.  And he knows she's busy, knows that should take priority, but it still hurts that she forgot about him today, forgot her promise to take him out.  She doesn’t get that he can’t drive, that he’ll literally die if he drives and she _doesn’t care_.  She’s just standing there, face in her papers, not _looking at him_.  Hunk was the one who had to bring him something his mother _should’ve remembered_.  It's like she doesn't even care about him.

All he can think of, logical or not is, _how dare she_?

He shakes his head.  Says lowly, “no.”

She blinks and freezes, looking up from her papers.  “Excuse me?”

“ _No_.  I’m not going.  I’m staying right here.  You can’t make me go.”

She stares at him for a moment longer.  Finally, he has her attention. She doesn’t yell.  She doesn’t throw her papers in the air.  She just stares at him with her razor sharp eyes, gives him one little shake of the head.  “You’re grounded.”

He laughs.  That’s the least of his problems.  Two minutes ago, he was thinking of his body being buried beneath the earth.  Grounded?   _Grounded_?  He laughs again.

“Keith...?”  Hunk asks softly, hands fiddling at his stomach nervously.

His mother shakes her head, staring at him with a dark frown.  “Two months. Want to make that three?  Keep laughing.”

He presses his hands to his face, trying to smother the sound, but it’s bursting out of him, ripping at his seams, making him come undone.

He finally manages to get it to taper off and he’s panting.  He doesn’t know if he’s laughing or sobbing.

“Hunk,” his mom says.  “It’s time for you to go.”

He hesitates by Keith, hand going to his shoulder.  “But...”

“ _Now_.”  

Hunk stands by Keith’s side a moment longer, looking down at him with wide eyes.  Keith can’t look him in his face.  He turns to the ground, breathing heavily as he stares down hard into it.

“...See you, Keith...”  Hunk says, but it sounds like half a question.  Keith already knows that Hunk is going to whip out his phone and consult the others about this.  That his cover is blown. That this was it. The final piece.  It's all over.

His mother shakes her head at him, looking so disappointed.  “What is wrong with you?” It’s almost laughable. She still doesn’t get it.  Just thinks he’s being a little shit. Why can’t she _see_ ?  “Fine.  Stay here since you’re doing such important things.  I’ll just be up all night while you sleep here comfortable in the bed _I_ paid for.  It’s fine. When your father gets home, we are having a _serious_ discussion about your behavior lately.”

“Fine,” he says lowly, still staring wearily at the floor, hunched over, run ragged.  “Do it.”

She shakes her head one last time before shutting the door firmly in his face.

God.

He’s breathing hard, eyes clenched shut.

_God._

He carefully pushes himself off the bed as if he’s afraid he’ll come apart at the seams.  He walks over to the razor and picks it up from the ground. He stares at it, carefully rotating it between his fingers.  He’s been trying to be conservative lately with how much he cuts.  He doesn’t _want_ to do it.  Knows it's a bad habit.  But he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway.  It feels like it’s all over.  Maybe tonight is it.  Maybe tomorrow will never come.  So why not do whatever he wants now?

He cuts.

And cuts.  Red blossoming over skin, ribbons streaking down his arm and dripping to the floor.

He runs it across his stomach.  He digs it up his thigh. He’s bleeding, small elegant little curves that run across his skin like a stream.  He just lets it go.

He positions the razor over his wrist and stares into it.  At the sight. The skin there is so soft and vulnerable, the small veins beneath vibrant.  It’s what he wants. It’s how he wants it to happen.  He’s mad enough and not thinking straight enough to just do it right here, where his mom will find him.  Where she will have to pick his dead body from the floor. Maybe she’ll cradle him, lifeless and broken in her arms.  Maybe she’ll run from the room and call his father. He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’ll be around for it.

He presses the razor to his flesh.  Holds his breath. Closes his eyes. He can do this.  He knows he can do this.

What is he waiting for??

His phone rings, startling him.  He jerks the razor away, wheezing out like a wounded animal. He’s panting.  He’s feeling sick. He almost just did it.

He almost just did.

He can hear a knock outside, loud and intrusive at their front door.  He ignores it. He presses his hands into his eyes, razor still in his hands.  He doesn’t know what’s next.

Does he try again?  Does he clean up the wounds and pretend none of this ever happened?

The house phone rings.  He groans softly.  It’s driving him fucking nuts.  He just wants some fucking _peace_.  From himself.  From the world.  But he can’t fucking _get it._

The phone stops...and starts again.

“God _dammit_ ,” he rages.  He grabs his jacket, smears the trail of blood at the bottom of the legs so he won’t trail it everywhere, and tosses the door open.  He stalks down the staircase and rips the phone from the desk.  “ _What_?”  He hisses.

“Keith,” it’s his dad.  His voice is strangely soft.  “Hey.  Hey, it’s me. Your mom’s been in an accident.”

He freezes.

He blinks a few times, putting the phone down for a moment and then bringing it back to his ear.  “What?”

“She’s been in a car crash.  I don’t know her status.  But I’m going to the hospital right now.  Will you meet me?”

“The hospital?”  His mind is blank.

“Keith.  Can you meet you?”

“I...”  He’s thinking.  Hard. The blood from his arm is dripping down onto the table in front of him.  He'd been so caught up in himself, he hadn't even thought...  “She asked me to go...” He says faintly.  “She said she had a headache, but I...  That should’ve been me.  She shouldn’t have gone.  That should've been me.”

“Okay.  It’s okay, Keith.  You know what?  Stay home. Stay home and I’ll come get you when I can to bring you here, okay?  Don’t drive, do you hear me?”

His head is reeling.  “...Yeah...”

“Okay.  ...Okay.  It’ll be alright, Keith.  I love you.”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes tightly.  His father hangs up and he lets the phone slip from his hands.

What a worthless piece of shit he is.  Absolutely. Utterly.  Worthless. That could’ve been him instead.  If he had just _listened_ and done what she had asked.  She didn’t have to be hurt. She could still be on her couch by the corner, right where Keith is, staring at it in horror.

But no. He had stayed home because he was having a _moment._

He loses it.

He grabs the phone and tosses it across the room, throwing it so hard it breaks against the wall.  He screams. He kicks the cabinet until his foot is bloodied and the wood is mangled.  He throws all his rage, all his sorrow into his fists and slams it into the wall until it breaks.

The picture frames teeter and fall to the floor. The glass breaks over their family portraits where they're smiling.

It could’ve been him.  It could’ve been him instead, but it’s not, it’s his mom.  His mom, who was perfectly in her rights to ask that of him and he said  _no_.  It’s all his fault.  Everything is all his fault.

He sinks to the floor, sobbing, fingers digging into the tops of his thighs, pulling up more blood.  It’s like he’s trying to tear himself apart, like the rocks that fell over the cliff into the ocean.  He wants to undo everything that he is, wants to get rid of all the mistakes he’s made and just start from the core of himself, deep down where there’s nothing left of himself, just the dark void that is his heart.

He hates himself.  He hates all that he’s done.  He doesn’t want to die, but he doesn’t want to live.  He just wants...

He doesn’t know what he wants.  That part of him is gone.  That part of him is broken.  It doesn't function right.  He doesn't function right.

The blood on him is so stupid.  But he claws into himself more, just tearing, just pulling at himself, trying to find some piece of his body that’s not poisoned, not ruined.

He doesn't hear the banging from the front or the breaking of the door's glass.  He doesn't hear as the front door swings wide or as footsteps pound in.  He just sobs his heart out, lets it tear out of him as harshly as his hands tear through his skin.

“ _Keith_ ,” he hears someone cry and there’s weight.  There are hands pulling at his, keeping him from harming himself.  There are footsteps, racing in a panic.  " _Oh, my god_."

Someone has their hands on his face and they’re saying something to him, words rushed, but he can’t make out what it is over the roaring in his heart.

“Call the ambulance,” he hears.  And he recognizes it.  It’s Pidge.

“N-no,” he tries to force out, but he sounds like a dying animal, voice guttural and wounded.  “Pidge...”

“Hey, Keith.  Hey... It’s alright.  You’re going to be alright.”

“What happened?”  Lance is saying, eyes wide as he stares at Keith like he’s one of the dead.  “What the hell happened?”

Hunk is on the phone, but he’s grey.  His hands shake as he stares at Keith, can’t stop staring.

Keith just grits out his pain, letting his head hang, letting the weight of his world crush him.  He rests his forehead on Pidge’s shoulder and she just holds him, her small body hardly able to take his weight, but she does.  She rubs her hand on his back carefully and he can hear her breaths, short and clipped as she tries to stay in control.

“It’s okay,” she keeps whispering to him.  “You’re going to be alright.”

He’s crying, tears pouring from him and ruining her shirt.  “It's all my fault,” he keeps saying. “Everything's my fault.  She’s hurt.”

“So are you, Keith,” she says softly.  “But we’re going to get you help, okay?  You’re both going to be fine. Everything will be fine.”

“They’re coming,” Hunk says slowly, kneeling beside them.  “Keith,” he says softly. “We love you, buddy.  We love you.”

He scoots closer, big arms coming around them in a giant hug.

Lance falls over them too, nestling his cheek on Pidge, hand resting over Keith’s head.

They all pile together, Keith at their center, holding him tightly, not afraid to get his blood all over them.

He cries and cries beneath their love.  He’s in so much pain. But they get it. They’re not turning away from him.  They bear his weight too, all of them. He hugs them back too.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s in the waiting room, chest tight with apprehension, trying to get ahold of himself.

He doesn’t want to be here, but he knows he has to.  He’s so nervous that he’s shivering deep within his core.

Therapy.  His mom is in there with his therapist now and they’re talking.  He can’t hear them but he can imagine all the terrible things they’re saying and he tries to be positive but it’s hard.

His leg bounces.  His shoulders tremble.

“Sorry,” Pidge says from behind.  “The bathroom was surprisingly full.”

“It’s okay,” he mutters, still leaning forward, posture tight like he’s about to dart.

She laughs softly, hand coming to his shoulder.  “Everything will be okay. This is a good thing. And it’s nice in here.  Look at the flowers.”

He lets out a grumble, but it _is_ pretty nice.

“This is a good thing,” she says softly.

“Yeah, and look, free cookies!”  Hunk laughs happily, holding it up in the air like it’s the greatest prize.

“Don't do that,” Lance grumbles lowly, elbowing Hunk in the ribs.  “Be considerate. He’s in a delicate state.  Delicate!  You hear?”

“But he likes cookies...  Don’t you, Keith?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand, attention going everywhere.  He just wants to go home. But, he supposes, his friends are nice for company and they make a good distraction.

The door to the therapist opens and his mom pokes her head out.  “Hey, mind if we borrow your friends for a moment?  We’ll be quick.”

They look at Keith, seeking permission and he nods.  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be right here.”

“‘K.”  Pidge gives him one last pat on the shoulder before they all shuffle into the office.

The door closes and he’s alone.

He takes in a deep breath.  The hospital sucked and it changed things, but, in a way, he’s glad it happened.  His mom was fine in the end.  He stayed longer than she did.  And now she takes him seriously about his moods.  She helps him in any way she can.

No one looks at him funny.  No one laughs about it.  No one says he’s being a selfish brat.  They’re there for him in whatever way they can be.  A few tears build in his eyes as he thinks about it.

“Keith?”  Someone startles him out of his thoughts and he jumps, running a quick hand over his eyes.

And stops.

It’s Shiro.  He’s tilting his head, smiling warmly.

“It _is_ you.  Hi.”

“H-Hi,” he stammers out.  Oh, god, what a place to meet him.  He wants to just disappear into the ground.

“We go to the same school,” Shiro says, sitting across from him easily as if they weren’t at a shrink’s waiting room.  “My name’s Shiro.”

Keith huffs a small laugh.  “No, I know. We have a few classes together.”

“Yep!  We do. How’ve you been?  You disappeared for awhile there.”

He bobs his head.  “Shitty,” he lets out a small laugh.  “But surviving. You?”

He laughs, the sound soft and beautiful and Keith loses himself in that sound.  The sound is therapy in itself. He thinks they should hire Shiro and pay him to heal people with the sound of his laughter.  “Surviving.  I’ve been meaning to try to talk to you for awhile,” Shiro says, “but you’re always surrounded by your friends. Hard to get through their protection.”

Keith laughs.  “Yeah. Yeah, they do that.  They’re here too.”

Shiro laughs again, eyes twinkling.  “How am I not surprised?”

“Do you work here?”  Keith asks, looking over at the receptionist’s desk.

He shakes his head.  “Nah. I have an appointment with the doctor every week at this time.”

“Me too...”  Keith mutters, thinking ahead.  “W-well, I just started. Today’s my first day.”  He adds, swallowing hard, “I’m pretty nervous.”

“I was too my first day,” Shiro said in understanding.  “But Allura’s the nicest person you’ll meet. She’s really smart.  You’re going to love her. She’s changed the way I think about a lot of things.”

“O-oh.”  He can’t think of a reason why someone as perfect as Shiro could need to come here, but he supposes not everyone wears their problems on their sleeves.  Not everyone needs a reason to feel miserable.

It just hit him one day, almost out of nowhere, a dark wave that dragged him under and drowned him.  He still doesn’t really know where it came from or why. But it did. And now he’s within its pull and it sucks.

But it’s not all hopeless.  He doesn’t need to succumb to it.  He can get help.

He's going to be okay.

“I hope you feel better, Keith,” Shiro says warmly, leaning forward out of his chair, hand extended.  “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

Keith reaches out, taking Shiro’s warm hand in his.  “...Thanks, Shiro.”

“Actually, want my number?  If you ever have any questions or need an ear, I’m here for you.”

God.  Maybe things aren’t as bad as he thought after all.

Keith gives him his phone and Shiro types his number in.  When he gets it back, Keith types in a text and sends it over.  Shiro’s phone chirps and he starts in surprise, smiling over at Keith as he takes his phone from his pocket and reads it.

It says, “thanks”.

Shiro laughs.

Keith looks up at him...and grins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Be well, everyone.
> 
> ( ˘ ³˘)❤ [ Chat with me on Twitter?](https://twitter.com/go__begreat)


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